


Desert Heat

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Africa, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Multi, Summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-08-08 08:16:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7750228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their best kept secret might be that Musichetta is, in fact, a princess.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. July

**Author's Note:**

  * For [catch up (constantine)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/constantine/gifts).



> Thanks for the prompt! Man this was fun to write. Hope you like! ;)

It’s not much hotter than it is at home, but something about a fourteen-hour flight to one of the great deserts of the world makes it feel stuffier and more humid than it probably is. Although if Grantaire’s being honest, “It feels like visiting home.”

“God, it does,” Eponine says, pulling Grantaire’s bag from the overhead bin as they pass it. She carries his in one hand, hers in the other, until they get off the plane and step onto the gravel of the landing strip. It’s windy; her hair whips around her in a massive cloud, whipping tangles she’ll have to get to tonight, and his hat almost makes its dusty getaway.

“At least we didn’t have to _drive_ all the way there,” Grantaire says, grinning. Eponine had felt like a depraved cat in his two-seater truck, and driving down to Maneadero to see Grantaire’s brother every summer took its toll on them both. Eponine shoots him a small frown, but it’s quickly replaced by relief as the tram to the airport drives up.

They cram in like sardines, most people staring up at Eponine like she’s otherworldly – and with that height, who wouldn’t think so? – and everyone else talking all at once in French or Arabic or a mix of the two with a little English peppered in.

Eponine half-smiles down at Grantaire with his head pressed into her back. “Have fun down there?” She asks once they get off the bus. Grantaire gives a sarcastic laugh and then a deep sigh once he’s enveloped in air conditioning. He hadn’t realized he was already sweating until he got inside, and now he can feel every drop slide down his back.

They find their bags quickly – two suitcases painted like bumblebees are an easy find amongst a sea of black duffels – and they haul ass through immigration and customs with as much mastery as high school French and broken pseudo-Arabic-Spanish allows.

Eponine’s still sucking in her cheeks to keep from laughing when they’re walking away from customs, where the guard had mistaken Grantaire as an Arab and gotten through half a one-sided conversation before Eponine cut in with a _we don’t speak Arabic._

“Where’s the rest of the club when you need them,” Grantaire says when they’re trekking through the confusing hallways of the airport.

“At least the signs are in English,” Eponine says, pointing above their heads at _arrivals_ and then an arrow to their right. She nudges him in the right direction. Her phone jingles with a text from her phone company about data and calling and unlimited free texting (yay!), but no sign of the rest of their party.

Fortunately, it isn’t that way for long.

“There they are!” One person shouts, and then there’s a wave of raucous cheering and hooting and hollering, “over here”s and “finally”s and “hurry up”s and “what took you so long”s. Eponine and Grantaire search blindly for a few seconds before they finally see a group of definite non-natives falling over themselves (and halfway over the rails – the guards approach slowly, but with clear amusement) and pick up speed.

“Jesus, you landed _two hours_ ago,” Courfeyrac half-shouts, tugging Grantaire into a squeezing hug even with the rail between them. Grantaire laughs in his neck, standing on his toes to hug back, feeling every wet spot on his shirt. He really needs to shed a layer or three before they do _any_ sightseeing today.

On his right, Eponine gets swept in by two people at once; Musichetta goes for the gold, throwing her arms around Eponine’s neck and all but hanging from there, while Gavroche comes to a similar position around the side of her waist. “You look amazing,” Musichetta says, kissing her cheeks.

They make it around the rail and into the actual group some ten, fifteen minutes later; Bahorel grabs three of their four bags, and the rest of them offer water, soda, apples, a chocolate bar. Eponine scoops Gavroche into her arms and holds him on piggyback while she walks, listening to everyone chatter all at once.

Musichetta slaps them both on the back once they’re outside. “Welcome to Morocco,” she says, beaming. Grantaire’s heart involuntarily starts beating faster; something about a new place always gets to him, and one he’d never even thought about is just possibility after endless possibility.

The heat is more bearable at second contact, even moreso now that they don’t have to carry their things and aren’t dehydrated to dangerous effects, and the walk through the insanity that is the parking lot is more exciting than tiring.

“This kid,” Bahorel nods at Gavroche while he’s loading in the luggage. Gavroche grins before Bahorel’s even sad anything, and hides his face in Eponine’s hair. “He asked for apple juice _six times_ while we were flying. And then he asked _me_ to ask three times – keep in mind that this is besides the three scheduled times they serve you – and woke me up every hour to _help him pee_ —”

Gavroche bursts out laughing at the Bathroom Word and shakes his head at Eponine, but the guilt is evident on his face. Grantaire laughs along; Eponine hadn’t said anything, but of course she’d be worried about her eight-year-old brother flying without her, and with only _Bahorel_ for company – but it seems to have been a (surprisingly) good decision.

Only the four of them came to pick Eponine and Grantaire from the airport, so they (thankfully) don’t have to Tetris themselves into the car. Courf squeezes into the spot between Eponine and Grantaire while Musichetta climbs into the passenger seat, turning around every ten seconds to relate a story face-to-face. Bahorel drives with Gavroche in his lap, seemingly comfortable when he’s been here only ten hours longer than the newest arrivals.

As soon as they leave the airport hub, they’re in the city, and dust comes up around them and people nudge past the car like it’s harmless and traffic laws are _suggestions,_ apparently – and it smells so good Grantaire’s mouth starts watering.

They park outside a Laundromat without warning. “Just a sec,” Musichetta says, hopping out of the car and walking past the Laundromat altogether, heading instead for a food stand parked on the sidewalk corner. She and the keeper have a familiar, comfortable back-and-forth, and then he hands her one, two, three steaming paper bags that she hot-potato’s back to the car.

“Don’t think I can’t hear your hungry asses from up here,” Musichetta laughs when they’re on their way again. She passes two of the bags to the backseats and opens the third for the front. Gavroche gets the first loot; Musichetta pulls a piping hot flatbread from the bag, wraps it in a napkin, and hands it to Gavroche – who, despite her warning, bites right into it and spends the next minute blowing hot O’s in front of him while his mouth cools.

Courf doles out the small puffy circles and Grantaire bites right into his, following Gavroche’s bad example. It burns the roof of his mouth, but is so soft and flaky that it feels like it’s melting on his tongue. Chewing and swallowing takes no effort, and there’s a sweet aftertaste to the flour. “This is really good,” he says around half the bread shoved in his mouth.

Bahorel shoots him a thumbs up, his own mouth full. Musichetta laughs, and Eponine’s asking for a second one before Gavroche is done with his first.

Grantaire and Eponine fall asleep immediately after eating. No one wakes them, which is probably Musichetta’s doing, so they miss most of the city and the drive through the countryside. Courf wakes them when the car’s stopped and all their bags have already been taken inside, and then Grantaire isn’t prepared when he gets out of the car.

The house is _huge_ – two stories high of intricately carved white marble, somehow unyellowed by time or dust; square windows with white curtains billowing out; painted doors at every visible entrance; interlocking walkways against the outside of the house, all part of the Musichetta residence.

“Dude, _what_ ,” Grantaire says, but Musichetta just laughs and pushes him through the open doors.

It’s like going through a museum; they enter a shaded marble walkway that splits off immediately to the right and left, bordering an open air garden, complete with a section of growing plants, a center fountain, and chairs and tables scattered about. Musichetta doesn’t give them too much time to look. They take their shoes off at the entrance and she leads the way to the left and up a set of hidden stairs.

“Sleep now, party later,” She says, pulling a pair of keys from her dress pocket and using them to unlock two different rooms beside each other. Every door faces out to the garden and the whole building smells like jasmine. Somehow, it’s cooler in here than it is out in the street. Grantaire’s ready to curl up and fall asleep right there.

“Bathroom’s the door by the stairs, and every other room is either empty or full of sleepless dumbass, so holler if you need anything.” She hands both of them a key and shoves them towards the doors. Grantaire doesn’t remember much past collapsing on a soft mattress on the floor, not even bothering to change his clothes.

 

He wakes up a full twenty-six hours later, his dying phone tells him, the first one up in the whole house, which gives him time to explore. It’s just his luck that he’s fought off his jetlag in one go, and he’s not going to get back into _that._

Despite Musichetta giving everyone a room key, no one’s door is locked. He peeks in all the rooms, finds snores and snores and more snores (and finds Gavroche in Bahorel’s room, which should worry him a little bit – Bahorel isn’t the best role model for kids. Next he’ll find Gavroche picking fights in the street and daredevil-ing his way through fourth grade). It’s endearing.

He heads downstairs in search of the kitchen after washing his face. There are almost no doors downstairs, so he just walks by every arch with a glance inside and makes notes to explore after having a bite. Every carpet he walks on looks and feels different, and there’s one in every hallway, every room, some even on the walls. Musichetta had told stories about what her country was known for, but he never realized how much she meant it until now.

He finally pads into the kitchen and it’s _enormous_. It’s made out of – you guessed it – white marble walls and counters, with a modern-day fridge squeezed in right beside a modern-day oven. His friends must’ve known he’d turn out earlier than them because there’re two covered bowls and a metal teapot sitting on a knee-high table in the connected dining room.

Grantaire tucks the note in his pocket (“ _Help yourself, sleepyhead_ ”, signed in Musichetta’s font-like script) and digs in. The tea is mint, tastes fresh like she’d made it just a bit before, and there’s a stack of handmade flatbreads to eat with a hearty bean soup he’s never seen before. He gives a thankful groan after the first bite, because what did he ever do to deserve Musichetta.

He’s washing the dishes when the first of his summer family trickles in. He shouldn’t be surprised that Combeferre’s the first to be up, but he has every right to be surprised when Combeferre _comes in for a half-hug_ , because Grantaire doesn’t know the guy all that well, but he’s pretty sure body contact was next to nil on Combeferre’s priority list. The heat’s getting to both of them.

“Didn’t get to say hello when you came in. You conked out in less than a minute,” Combeferre says. The only reason Grantaire’s even mildly embarrassed is because something in Combeferre’s tone sounds _amused._ “Looks like you got rid of that jetlag, though.”

“And the aching hunger,” Grantaire says. “Though my tongue feels like it’s vibrating because I don’t think I’ve ever drank hot mint tea before.” At his request, Grantaire pours Combeferre a cup, and they’re a sip in when Courfeyrac tumbles out, all showered and changed and ready to take on the world.

“God, dim those lights,” Grantaire says, shielding his eyes from the biggest morning person he’s ever met.

“Morning, sunshine,” Courfeyrac ruffles Grantaire’s hair – he’ll have to go on a search for his beanie later today – and pour himself his own cup. “You looked pretty cute sleeping, but Eponine didn’t let me take any pictures.” He owes Eponine too many debts for this life. “I’ll do something this summer, though, so don’t get comfy.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes and takes another sip. Okay, he can get behind mint tea. “What did you guys do yesterday?”

“Played cards,” Combeferre says immediately, “For hours. Hell is real.”

Courf laughs, slaps his shoulder. Somehow, Combeferre doesn’t spill his tea. “We watched a horror movie, and I think the only person unaffected was Gavroche, which scares me,” he pauses for effect. Grantaire isn’t surprised; before they left, Gavroche convinced Eponine to take him to watch the biggest horror movie of the year, and she’d come back soulless, and he’d been disappointed. “We made a list of the places we want to visit, because tourists are the worst! And we’re tourists. Musichetta’s gonna worry about how we see everything, and we’ll just go along with it.”

“Is there anywhere you want to go today?” Combeferre asks. They all sit on the cushions around the table. It’s so relaxing it’s almost surreal, with a nice breeze blowing through and the sound of the fountain in the courtyard. The house walls muffle the sounds of hustle and bustle somehow, even when they’re smack in the middle of the city.

“Maybe tonight,” Grantaire says, “Today I just want to walk around this castle of a house.”

“Okay, good, I’m not the only one who didn’t know Musichetta was _fucking loaded_ ,” Courf whispers the last part, leaning in so hard he almost spills his tea. “I almost passed out when we stopped out front. She’s royalty, dude, or _something._ ”

Combeferre pauses in thought. “I figured she had some money when I heard she visited her mother during winter and spring breaks,” he says, “but I never realized how much.”

Grantaire literally had no idea. He grew up in her house, but they lived almost the same life as Grantaire did with his mother, and make no mistake, Grantaire was dirt-poor. While his mother cleaned houses, Grantaire worked the strawberry fields on the edge of town through middle and high school, before and after school hours.

But then again, Musichetta’s mom never went to work. She was a single housewife, raising two kids for a while. It makes sense now.

They hear a crash above their heads, and then thudding steps to the end of the ceiling, down the stairs, and echoing down the hallway until the speedster barrels into the kitchen and almost collides with the island. He catches himself at the last second, and whips his head around until he sees the three at the table.

“I’m hungry,” Gavroche says, plopping down beside them. He takes Grantaire’s cup from his hand and finishes the cooled rest of the tea.

“Did you brush your teeth?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Gavroche whirls around to answer Combeferre on his other side. They stay locked in a stare for all of three seconds until Gavroche’s shoulders sag. “No.”

“Better get to that before Ep gets to you,” Grantaire warns, and then Gavroche is sulking back out the hallway. He looks back at Combeferre. “If she catches him one more time, she’s gonna string him upside down from her window.”

“He might learn that way,” Courf says, sounding thoughtful. The other two shoot him a look and he starts to laugh.

Gavroche comes back minutes later with a migration in tow. Bahorel’s telling Eponine some kind of story, and behind them, Bossuet wheels Joly in and right up to the table. Grantaire meets them halfway, and their reunion after a year is loud and full of jumping and laughing and lifting Joly into the air and putting him back down because they can’t get caught almost-killing him in Musichetta’s house.

Musichetta sweeps in in a flurry of skirts, hugging everyone a good morning before guiding the whole party back into the kitchen for breakfast. She sets everyone to work taking out plates or washing or cutting or stirring, and it’s a flurry of activity in minutes.

Grantaire’s peeling potatoes on the counter by the kitchen entrance, so he’s the first to see when Enjolras walks in, still looking a little disoriented and like he wants to kill the sun. Grantaire laughs in his face, startling him, and Enjolras fixes him with a glare before he starts laughing, too.

“I’m not a morning person,” Enjolras says, earning an unorganized bunch of _good morning_ s. He washes his hands and takes up post peeling potatoes alongside Grantaire. “It’s good to see you,” he tells him, “although we missed you yesterday.”

“I took the nap of a lifetime, trust me. No regrets.” Grantaire tosses his peeled potato over Musichetta’s head and Bahorel catches it and starts slicing. Musichetta almost shrieks at the flying objects in her kitchen, and Grantaire makes a silent pact with Bahorel to keep it up for the rest of the time they’re cooking.

“You didn’t miss much,” Enjolras tells him, zoning out on his potato. “We played bluff for – I don’t even know how long. Courfeyrac just wouldn’t let the game die.”

Grantaire laughs, “That’s what Combeferre said. Maybe we should pick up where you left off today—”

A chorus of opposition startles Grantaire into dropping his potato. When he’s picking it up, he shoots a look at everyone else in the kitchen. “Way to eavesdrop, yeah?”

“This is a public space,” Bossuet says, banished to the kitchen corner of _guard the dishes, Bossuet. Don’t touch them or anything – just guard them._ “Anything you say can and will be subject to general consensus.”

“I don’t wanna hear anything out of the fool who can’t even step inside the kitchen.” Bossuet mimics a tear rolling down his face. Grantaire gets back to peeling. “Okay, but really, what’s the plan today? I need to know if I should take a shower or not.”

At least three people tell him to take a shower immediately.

“We could go to a night market,” Musichetta suggests. “You walk around and shop, and eat and watch performances, and eat again.”

“I’m down, princess,” Courf says. Musichetta rolls her eyes.

“Let’s save that for later,” Bossuet says. “I’m getting the vibe I’m not the only one still on US-time, so.”

“We’ve got a whole summer,” Musichetta says. “Today we can relax part two?” No one fights her on it.

Breakfast is two kinds of bread, two kinds of rice, two kinds of curry, and two kinds of salad, with sides of yogurt and mint tea. A quarter of it is finished before it reaches the table because no one has enough self-restraint not to eat while cooking, apparently; the rest is decimated in half an hour, and then Grantaire is bullied all the way to the shower, where he spends ten minutes just trying to figure out how it works.

“Like this, _baba_ ,” Musichetta barges in and gives him a rundown of the knobs and a towel. “Holler if you need anything. We’ll be in the courtyard; I think everyone could use a little exercise.” She waves and shuts the door behind her.

It’s chaos when he gets out. There’s screaming coming from the courtyard so he runs out to go look, hair still dripping onto his shirt, and sees everyone chasing each other, half of them soaking wet. Grantaire watches them for a minute while his heart calms down before he jogs onto the grass.

“What is happening?” He asks anyone who runs past him.

“Bahorel went crazy!” Gavroche shouts, grabbing Grantaire’s hand and yanking him along, away from where Bahorel has finally noticed Grantaire. Grantaire looks back for a second, sees the shadow of death at his door, and picks up speed so hard he leaves Gavroche behind.

“Shit, shit, shit,” he says, and a hysterical laugh breaks out from his chest, but he’s not fast enough; strong arms wrap around his torso, lift him up, and head full speed in the other direction. Grantaire wriggles as best he can, but even his friends are cheering when Bahorel dunks him in the cold water of the fountain and then drags him out to lie on the grass.

When he’s gone, a breathless Eponine bends down by Grantaire’s head. She’s taken a shower too, and now everyone smells like Musichetta; her hair’s curling up golden at the ends, soft in the light, shading his eyes from the sun. “Still alive?” She asks him, brushing wet hair away from his forehead.

“Somehow,” Grantaire says. “I’ve never ran that hard in my life.”

“It’s a summer of firsts,” Eponine says, and then bolts away from him so fast his head spins. A second later Bahorel zips past, hot on Eponine’s heels. Grantaire rolls on his side to watch and laugh as Bahorel gains, gains, gains – and then trips when Gavroche barrels into his side, sacrificing himself for his sister.

“Too much exercise,” He tells Musichetta when they’re all drying out in the sun. She laughs.


	2. August

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> August.

“You don’t understand because your legs are fucking trees,” Grantaire says, both hands clutching at Enjolras’ wrist. Enjolras is desperately trying not to laugh, but his shaking is making Grantaire even unsteadier than he already is.

“Okay, I’m holding onto you,” Enjolras says, sliding Grantaire’s hand to his and turning so that he can face Grantaire. “Look at me, R.” Grantaire’s too busy focusing on the slippery rocks at his feet and the water flowing past them because he doesn’t want to fucking die, but okay, Enjolras. “I’ll pull you, and you jump, okay?”

“Hold up, not okay, stop,” Grantaire says, squeezing Enjolras’ hands so hard they must be blue. Half their friends are already across, cheering for Grantaire, and the ones behind him are doing the same thing. Some of the locals have even joined in, yelling encouragement in French and waving thumbs up’s in his direction.

“Okay,” Grantaire says, taking a deep breath. “Okay, you’ll have to pull me a little.”

“Okay,” Enjolras says, suddenly serious. He makes a little room on his rock for when Grantaire will land.

“On the count of three,” Grantaire says, “I’ll jump, you pull, you catch. Yeah?”

“Yeah, okay,” Enjolras nods.

“Okay,” Grantaire says again. It doesn’t help that the waterfall is still thundering in his ear just a few feet away, and that the second drop is literally a leap to his left, but whatever. Focus on Enjolras, and how he isn’t afraid of fucking falling off a waterfall. “Okay. One. Two. Three!”

No one moves. Enjolras starts laughing.

“I thought you were gonna pull me!”

“You said you’d jump first,” Enjolras says, still laughing. His shoulders shake, sending tremors through Grantaire’s own arms.

“Dude, it was _you_ pull me first, _then_ —”

Enjolras yanks him hard, so fast Grantaire doesn’t even do anything except land in a sloth position on Enjolras’ chest, mid-shriek and dry and very much alive. When Grantaire calms down he can hear both sides cheering for him, and he can hear Enjolras still laughing. He’s taller than Grantaire, and smells better (which is a lie; he’s also used Musichetta’s shampoo now), and his voice is less grating. Grantaire can count the good things about him when he’s being cradled in his arms.

But for now, anger. “I will murder you in your sleep,” Grantaire promises, and Enjolras laughs it off so easily, like water off a duck’s back.

After all those years of being at his throat in high school, Enjolras isn’t so much bothered by Grantaire as he enjoys his company, which Grantaire totally doesn’t understand. How do you make a switch like that, and what was the turning point? Everything Grantaire says is valid or amusing, now, and even his shitty jokes get at least a small smile. It’s the Twilight Zone, even moreso when they’re in a new country.

The last few rock hops to the shore require next to no effort and Grantaire’s too busy trying to still his heart to really get freaked out at the end. Enjolras gives him double thumbs up because he’s a fucking nerd and then turns to cheer on Eponine and Bahorel, the next pair to cross.

“Man, who thought having a restaurant on a waterfall was a good idea?” Grantaire asks, and Joly laughs at his side. Honestly though; there are tables and chairs in the actual water, so that you can get your lower half wet while you enjoy the sweet culture of Marrakech. What kind of trip?

“You took even longer than I did to get across,” Joly says, poking at Grantaire’s side.

“Yeah, that’s because you had your own human carriage,” he nods at Bossuet and Musichetta, “While I had to brave the icy fight _alone._ ”

“You had Enjolras,” Joly points out.

“I had a would-be _killer._ ”

“It wasn’t _that bad_ ,” Enjolras says from Grantaire’s other side. “Right, Joly? He’s exaggerating.”

“I think R enjoyed it,” Joly tells Enjolras. Grantaire almost kicks him and his wheelchair into the water. Joly and Enjolras both laugh at his expression before focusing on the sight before them. Grantaire can’t really see – he’s the shortest in their club, after all – so Enjolras steps back for him. Grantaire gives him a look before taking the vantage point.

Bahorel and Eponine are the two towers of the group, only an inch apart and the easy finds in any crowd. Their hands stay in tight grip as they walk side by side, unbothered by the distance between the rocks. Grantaire sends them as much envy-eye as he can muster – and then regrets it when Bahorel trips, falling forwards.

“Fucking—”

Eponine catches him, though, in a perfect dip. She’s got one leg knee-deep in the water now, but he’s looking up at her, arms on her shoulders, and she’s looking down at him, arms tight around his waist. The Amis act as a hive mind, letting loose whistles and cheers all at once; Musichetta whips her phone out for a video in an instant, and Joly nearly falls out of his wheelchair laughing.

Eponine almost drops Bahorel at the sudden noise, but he hoists them both back up on the rocks. They finish the crossing with little more excitement, but the hoots don’t stop until they’re walking away from the water and heading up to the actual restaurant.

“Eponine,” Grantaire calls, and barely holds back laughter when he sees how hard she’s flushing. “Nice,” He tells her, and she almost elbows him off the side of the mountain.

“Honestly, I think anyone would be seduced,” Enjolras tells her from her other side, and she gives him a withering look that just doesn’t seem to work on him. She starts taking the steps three at a time, leaving them in the dust quickly.

“She is so oblivious,” Grantaire says out loud.

Enjolras looks at him. “You think _she’s_ oblivious? Combeferre all but asked Courfeyrac to _marry_ him and Courf thinks his love is one-sided.”

That’s like fourteen mental overloads waiting to happen all at once, so Grantaire just starts with, “Where you supposed to be telling me that?”

“It’s fairly obvious. I thought you knew,” Enjolras shrugs and nods ahead of them.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac walk together but with an almost invisible no man’s land between them. Combeferre makes a joke and Courf laughs loudly, rubbing at the back of his neck when he glances at Combeferre, which is every three seconds. Combeferre smiles a real smile at him, and doesn’t look away until they both fall silent again.

“Disgusting,” Grantaire says. Enjolras starts laughing.

Musichetta’s ordering them food from a small hut when they get to the top. It’s a horde of mismatched chairs and tables and people of all ages sitting around them, eating from pans and pots and bread and even leaves. It’s not hard for them to scavenge chairs from all around to fill up their table.

“Guys, I learned a word,” Gavroche tells them when they’re all sitting down, and everyone tenses (as they’ve learned to any time Gavroche says the statement). Eponine had pulled his cornrows loose this morning, and the familiar poof of afro made Gavroche look even younger than he already did. Gavroche tests the pronunciation silently once and then says something in Arabic.

“What did he say?” Eponine asks immediately.

Gavroche says it one, two, three more times; he’s saying it again when Musichetta gets to the table, and then she laughs. “You want me to make it spicier?” Gavroche beams up at her, nods twice. “Okay, I’ll be right back. Is everyone okay with that?”

She specifically looks at Enjolras, who jumps a little. “Why wouldn’t I be okay with that...?”

Courfeyrac leans over to stage whisper to Combeferre, “White boy’s first time in Morocco. Can’t kill him this early on.” Enjolras swipes at him and Courfeyrac is too busy laughing at himself to dodge.

It’s grilled fish with potatoes and skewers of spicy shrimp and mushrooms and onions, today. Joly, who used to have an irrational fear of shellfish, digs in with relish that no one anticipates. They get two more duplicate orders because no one realizes how hungry they actually are until they’re eating, and then get an army of fresh fruit juices to walk around with.

“I can’t go back to America anymore,” Bossuet says when they’re back on the street. The heat’s actually not that bad now that they’ve been here for a bit, and especially by the waterfall it’s cool enough for them to relax. “I don’t know _what_ I’m gonna do with burgers, and people who speak English, and a normal-sized house.”

“I’m getting spoiled, too,” Courfeyrac confesses. “All this good food, our very own party bus, me finally putting my Spanish 3 skills to good use—” Combeferre _snorts_ , loudly. Courfeyrac can’t even bring himself to look indignant, and just smiles for a second. “Musichetta, you’re changing my life.”

“You guys are too much,” She beams, but her cheeks are heating up with a dark blush. “You should stop.”

“Honestly—”

Before Grantaire can speak, she starts singing loudly to drown him out, and when he starts talking louder she just makes it a volume power play. They get stares as they’re heading back to their ‘party bus’ – in reality, an old van they borrowed from their neighbors – but everyone’s laughing by the time they make it there.

“Okay, morning fun over,” Courfeyrac says from the driver’s seat. He tunes through the radio stations until he hits a brand of Moroccan pop he _really_ enjoys and sets that to play. “The missing pieces of Amis are landing at the station in Casablanca, and it’s a two-and-a-half hour drive from here, so get comfortable.”

Gavroche ends up sandwiched between Grantaire and Enjolras in the back row after the second bathroom stop, but he doesn’t seem to mind; he talks to them both by constantly turning his head back and forth, not breaking between stories to take a breath until he desperately needs to.

He literally falls asleep midsentence is the amazing part, and lays his head on Enjolras’ lap as he snores. “He’s so small,” Enjolras says, like he’s never seen a human child before.

“Kind of how it is when you’re eight,” Grantaire says, running a hand through his hair. He still hasn’t found his damn beanie – doesn’t even remember losing it – and has to wake up and actually tame his Authentic Latino Mane™ before coming down every morning. “Talks pretty big, though, and I don’t think that’s gonna change any time soon.”

“I hope so.”

Grantaire peeks at the rows ahead. Courfeyrac and Combeferre in the front are talking to Musichetta from the second row because her rowmates are conked out on either side of her. Bahorel and Eponine are talking in hushed whispers, Bahorel telling some kind of story and Eponine nodding along. The row after them is empty, and then it’s The Isolated at the back.

“I could really go for an _elote_ right now,” Grantaire says off-handedly.

Enjolras tilts his head at him. “A what?”

Grantaire looks at him; he hadn’t realized he was talking out loud. “Oh it’s – it’s like, this thing,” he mimes a stick and Enjolras looks even more confused. “Its corn on a stick, but with like chili and cheese and mayonnaise and little bits of meat, if you go for that.”

“Mexican food?” Enjolras guesses, sounding intrigued.

“Yeah. Don’t get me wrong, I’m _loving_ Morocco. Just, usually, me and Eponine are driving down to see my brother in Mexico, and we always stop for it on the way and I’m. Having cravings, I guess.”

“That sounds _so good_ ,” Enjolras says. Grantaire had watered his own mouth with the description, if he was being honest. “That’s something worth having cravings for.”

“Man, Grantaire, you need to take me to Mexico next time,” Musichetta shout-whispers from her seat, and Grantaire pointedly glares at her from where only the top of his head is visible above the seat. He knows Gavroche is gaining on his height, but this is just inconvenient.

“You should give it a rest,” Enjolras tells him, the only witness to Grantaire’s wrath. “There’s bound to be more chances for revenge in a day.”

“You’re really good at convincing people,” Grantaire says.

“Hasn’t worked on you yet,” Enjolras says, “ _Yet._ But I’m confident.” Grantaire snorts, and Enjolras chuckles. “Seriously though, you can sleep. I woke up the latest—”

“As usual!” Courfeyrac calls back, to a wave of _shhhhhhhhh_ ’s.

“So I’m good right now. I can wake you when we get there.”

“That’s so cute,” Musichetta stage whispers. “Even though the rest of the car’s wide-awake—”

“Okay, I’ll take a nap,” Grantaire cuts off, and rests his head against his window. “See you in, like, an hour.” Enjolras salutes him and then he’s out.

 

In Musichetta’s religion, she and Grantaire are sister and brother.

The story goes that Grantaire’s mother fell sick in the hospital and, without any living relatives in the country, couldn’t afford to breastfeed her two-month-old son. The task fell to her next-door-neighbor, who breastfed and raised Grantaire for close to a year while her three-year-old daughter spoke to him in a mesh of all the languages she knew, taught him how to walk and spit, and built him up a spice tolerance. Then Grantaire’s mother healed and they grew up side-by-side for the next fifteen years, until Musichetta went back to her hometown to care for, and eventually bury, her father.

Essentially, the person Grantaire is closest to isn’t his blood brother, who he met for the first time he could remember when he was seventeen; or Eponine, who he’s bared his everything to for the last three years they’ve known each other; or Gavroche, who is basically his son; or his mother, who died his eighteenth summer.

Musichetta finds Grantaire on the roof, finishing all the milk they have. “You’re gonna get back your jetlag like this, _baba_ ,” She says, sitting beside him. The roof is flat and clean with the rain they’ve been getting, so Musichetta had spent an hour in the morning rolling out carpets for them to sit on when they felt like it.

He looks at her from the corner of his eye and then takes another gulp from his glass. “I’m not, like, _addicted_ or anything, I don’t know,” he shrugs, but it’s half-hearted at best.

“I know.”

He looks at her again, and then at the ground. He wishes she wouldn’t look right at him, because he can’t do the same thing to her. “I just feel really, really weird without it. Without even a little bit.” He’s been holding out for three weeks, but hadn’t felt _really_ needy until they went to the airport today and found the open bar along the side. Musichetta doesn’t keep alcohol in her house, so getting back was like going from a refreshment stand back into the desert.

“Go downstairs,” She tells him, suddenly. For a second he thinks she’s going to kick him out of her house – which is his biggest fear, honestly – but then she kisses his forehead and tells him she’ll be back.

She doesn’t come back, but it looks like it was a last-minute change of plan. “She gave me the directions,” Enjolras says, locking the door to the giant house behind him. They step out onto the street, still busy even at just past two in the morning, and starts to lead the way.

Grantaire pauses, a little humiliated. “What did she say?” He manages, after much deliberation.

Enjolras glances at him. “You wanted to go out for some snacks and maybe a beer, and that she was too tired. She asked if I could go with you instead.”

Grantaire floods with relief and gratefulness first, because of course her sister would never throw him to the dogs, and then floods with embarrassment, because this is a fucking setup, and Musichetta has the incurable disease of matchmaking.

“Cool,” Grantaire says, keeping pace with him. “And you were just awake because...?”

Enjolras gives a sheepish look before digging a box of cigarettes out of his pocket. “I actually wanted to go up to the roof for a smoke after everyone else went to sleep, but you two were up there. While I was coming down, Musichetta caught up to me.”

“You’re a smoker?”

Enjolras scoffs. “A ‘smoker’. I don’t smoke _regularly_ , but I was getting a little homesick.”

“Can’t start a revolution on the other side of the world, can you?” Enjolras matches Grantaire’s smile.

They come up to the convenience store at the end of the corner and buy the cheapest beers Grantaire has ever spent money on, a pack of gum so that they don’t look like drunken vandal tourists, and two of the flatbreads Grantaire has pledged his life to.

His first sip, forget that the alcohol content is next to nothing, is like a loose brace on Grantaire’s chest. He breathes easier, enjoys the bread a little more, and downs the can with one long chug. Beside him, Enjolras alternates between his bread and his cig, burning up a quarter with each deep breath.

Grantaire lets Enjolras glance at him four times before he finally kicks his ankle. “Spit it out,” he says, because he hates elephants in rooms more than he hates how dependent he is on _beer_ , of all things.

Enjolras is quiet for a long moment. He stamps out his cigarette and throws it in the trash (of course he does. Grantaire would roll his eyes if he didn’t low-key care about the environment). “No one cares if you have a beer, Grantaire.” At Grantaire’s look, “Seriously, no one’s going to judge you, or anything.”

“They _do_ judge eavesdroppers, though.”

“No,” Enjolras immediately gets defensive, “Okay, yes, they do, sorry, but it doesn’t matter mostly because no one cares. Anyone would go with you. Musichetta comes with us all the time as the best DD in history. You don’t have to be self-conscious.”

Grantaire glares at him for a long minute. Then, “It was probably partly because it was her house, but. I don’t know.”

“Don’t worry about it, is what I’m trying to say.”

“Okay, fine, whatever.” He relents, and then pointedly ignores Enjolras’ beaming smile. “Put that away before you blind someone.”

Enjolras obediently smiles less, but it’s nothing close to how Musichetta’s beaming when they get back. “Did you bring me anything?” She asks, and doesn’t wait for the answer before scooping Grantaire into a hug. “Feel better?” She whispers into his ear.

“Yes,” Grantaire whispers back.

“Good,” She kisses his temple before letting go. “Thanks, Enjolras, but I don’t think I can let you into my house when you went out and _didn’t buy me anything—_ ”


End file.
